


The Moth King's Court

by sackofloveandwater



Series: The Marked [5]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Fairytale Violence, Gen, Intimidation, abusive parenting, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sackofloveandwater/pseuds/sackofloveandwater
Summary: Emily is feeling the strains of Imperial responsibility and The Outsider hears her call for help. Whether or not he will be of any actual help, however, depends entirely on circumstances.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Big dedication to Wings, for reading all my work because it's my work. You're a top notch friend and you give wonderful writing advice.

Emily was _struggling_.

Men turning into rats, watches that moved time, walking hands, _aunts_.  Those were all things she could take in stride. But there came a point where even she couldn’t accept the absurdity of some situations.

She read through the first lines of the briefing for the new bill on Tyvian wine imports issued from the Houses of Morley, this time emphasizing each syllable with her index finger. But even then the words weren’t quite making sense. The bill, from what she had gleaned, was innocuous. Utterly. A tax of less than ten percent on incoming spirits from Tyvia.

And yet, here it was getting presented to a Gristolian parliament in preparation for a four kingdom vote.

From what she could glean, after walking the entire length of the palace back to her study, Morley was requesting support from Gristol and Serkonos to prop them up against the Tyvian opposition. Something that the Duke of Serkonos and his new council was eager to side with Morley on, if his newest telegram was to be believed. Though the why behind that was still somewhat of a mystery, even to most of her advisors.

Tyvia opposition was, to be somewhat more predictable, strong. Their steel and textiles were good, but their wine was _the best_. There was demand for it all over the isles and Gristol had yet to come close to it, even with it’s plethora of factories and army of a whaling industry. They were highly protective of the liquor industry and had lobbyists and diplomats to help guarantee Tyvian interests in all four kingdoms. They, out of everyone in this mess, were behaving as they normally would.

As of right now, the swing was Gristolian and parliament was stanchly against encouraging any form of Morley independence. Father, too, had told her there had been chatter and that the Dead Eels may start extending their business through to Morley if it went through. An unpleasant outcome considering the fact the Watch from the Northern cities had already been sending word of murders that looked like the Eels handy work.

Bad enough they had such a firm grip on Gristol’s Southern ports. If their business moved to Morley she would get _more_ pressure from parliament and the Queen of Morley to start a surveillance program.

As though smuggling would ever stop just because she decided to look through people’s mail. 

Emily flipped the page over and read the correspondence from the Duke urging her to _consider their friendship_ stop. _Before making any hasty decisions_ stop.

She snorted. If the Duke was trying to blackmail her he had to reconsider the strength of his position. And the strength of her right cross.

She scratched in between her eyebrows and scowled, trying to read the briefing again.

Was she missing something here?

She shook her head as she turned the last corner to her study, whipping the papers stiffly down to her side. No that couldn’t _possibly_ be it.

She should just pawn her response off to parliament. They were all itching for a fight and she surely had bigger things to worry about than an _imports_ _bill_. 

Like… she wracked her brain for a moment… ball dressing. Someone had mentioned something about a ball in two weeks? Or maybe it had been in a month?

She opened the door to her study, absolutely prepared to pour herself a nice tall glass of untaxed Tyvian red when she saw a familiar face lounging on one of her settees. Laying eyes on them, she stopped halfway through the doorframe and thoughts about possible appointments she could have forgotten were shoved to the side.

“Why are _you_ here?”

The Outsider glanced up from a book of poetry entitled _The Wind and the Waves_. “You called me.”

Emily closed the door quietly as she could, glancing down the hall to see if any one had heard the two of them speaking.

“I didn’t call you,” she said with all the power of her courtly breeding, which given the fact her upbringing was lax, diverse and her mother never brought her to court was… lacking.

“And yet I only come when I’m called,” he slung himself back in the settee and continued reading the book of poems.

Emily looked up to the ceiling and sighed, dropping her briefing on the endlessly growing pile of papers on her desk. It floated down with a disappointing weightlessness.

“Did anyone see you?” she asked, staring into all the papers on her desk in desperation.

“Why would they see me?”

“Because you’re a young man with pitch black eyes and dusty clothes lounging casually in my study,” she hissed, “you don’t  exactly look like a passing nobleman, do you?”

“Yes,” he noted dryly, “because my ability to give you control over shadows, must clearly indicate a lack of subtlety.”

Emily looked down at the silk wrapped around her hand, and rubbed it absent-mindedly, looking back over at the boy… the god, lounging on her couch, specifically the cover of the book he was reading. Then, quite spontaneously, she found herself laughing.

“You know, I honestly didn’t take you for a Taff man,” she remarked, walking over to the tray of carafes by the window. She reached briefly for the wine but stopped short and grabbed the brandy instead, looking briefly around for a clean glass. “What with all that… optimism.” 

The Outsider glanced at the cover of the book.

“Oh, I’m not, I’m a fan of his wife.”

“Wife?” she raised an eyebrow, swirling her tumbler in the gaslight, realizing, too late that it wasn’t tremendously clean.

“She wrote the occasional book of poems under his name before going independent at his insistence,” he gave a small smile. “Too many fan letters from me I suppose. “

“That’s a good joke,” she said airily before taking a hard sip. Something between a  thimble and a proper gulp.

“Joke,” his smile devolved into a smirk. “Right.”

Emily glanced over to him as he turned another page in his book.

He really did seem… engrossed?

She ran her hands down her face and walked over to her desk, leaning against the polished wood, being careful not to spill the half empty wine glass standing precariously on top of several silk swatches. Maybe if she let him be he would just leave.

She held that thought in her mind as she leafed through a pile of months old papers. Most of them were unhelpful, drafts that should have been thrown out weeks ago. Others were minutes that she borrowed from the records office or covert notes she took in parliament away from the prying eyes of her guards. They weren’t much more use than the drafts. She turned the piece of paper on the top toward her. It had the word “apples?” written on it in a quick scrawl of ink.

It was underlined two of three times.

 “Tell me. Do you appreciate stories, Empress?”

The question came as she was holding a bit of liquor in her mouth.

“Um…” she swallowed and turned. “…yes. I like… stories.”

“Do you know the story of the Moth King?” the Outsider asked, he did not glance at her.

 “That’s,” she squinted, “a fairytale.”

“Fairytales and poems,” he hit the cover of his book, “are the bedrock of the world.”

“It’s a _child’s_ story.”

He shrugged, again without glancing at her. 

“I’d like to hear it none the less.”

She held up her tumbler, blinking slowly.

 “And if I refuse?”

“ _I_ ,” he put his hand to his chest in complete humility, a surprising feat for someone in full recline, “can’t make you do anything. But I would like to hear it.”

The Empress sighed, rubbed the bottom of her eye. Telling bed time stories wasn’t exactly in her job description, but then again, neither was jumping over rooftops or overthrowing corrupt governments.

Her life had certainly taken a turn, hadn’t it?

> _Once upon a time there lived a naughty little boy in the middle of the forest who did no work during the day and would eat no supper during the night._
> 
> _One day his mother asked him to pick nightblooms but he got lost due to his own foolishness._
> 
> _As his lantern wick grew low, some moths came, attracted to the flame and told him they could guide him home. He agreed, but instead of guiding him back they took him to the Moth King’s court, where he was eaten whole for the Moth King’s supper._

Emily offered her hand, as if to say “there you are” and The Outsider seemed to consider the gesture thoughtfully, placing his forefinger in the spine of his book. 

“I know the tale a bit differently.”

“How intriguing,” she said sullenly, plopping down in an armchair opposite the god. “You know I had things to _do_ tonight.”

“Like what, Empress?” he asked, flatly. “Choosing the palette for the winter ball? What type of silk to use for the table clothes?” he drew his eyebrows together and somehow he managed to become the centre of the room when the sette, the chair and every line in the room was situated to be facing the desk. “Or perhaps you would finally decide to give that Tyvian imports bill to parliament.”

Emily frowned. It wasn’t a frown very fit for an Empress.

“Tell your fairytale,” she said, drawing her glass to her lips again. “Maybe from there we can move on to your favourite nursery rhymes.”

The  Outsider smiled sitting up. As he did the gaslights dimmed around them, casting the room into long, deep shadows.

“I hope you don’t mind a bit of ambiance…”

Emily shifted, putting her glass down on a side table, but she stayed silent.

> _Once upon a time there lived a boy in the middle of the forest and his parents were very cruel._
> 
> _They made him work, day in and day out, chopping wood from the great trees and gathering food from the floors of the forest, sometimes long into the night with nothing but the light of the moon and a lamp to guide him._

A single tiny flame suddenly appeared in the centre of the room, dancing calmly in the air, and Emily blinked in surprise, watching as it burned freely and merrily.

A parlour trick?

> _But one day there was a storm..._

A crack of thunder sounded.

> _…and the boy was caught in a cave with nothing but a tiny wick of flame for heat._

The flame flickered slightly in the semi-darkness.

> _There he cried and wept, and cried and wept, certain he would die._
> 
> _But before the moon reached the top of the sky, a tiny moth came fluttering toward the light of his lamp._
> 
> A moth came, circling the fire.
> 
> _The boy, feeling pity for another doomed creature, trapped the moth, rescuing it from certain death._
> 
> _The moth, so grateful for the rescue, began to speak._

“Oh, gratitude makes animals speak?” Emily asked, raising her eyebrows. “I’ll alert my natural philosophers.”

The Outsider raised his hand to his lips, his book abandoned seemingly long ago, and continued. 

> _“Little boy,” it said, “for your kindness I shall reward you with guidance to your home. Snuff out your lamp and you will be there in an instant.”_
> 
> _“But how do I know you will guide me home if I cannot see?” the boy asked it. “You could guide me to a river and drown me!”_
> 
> _“If I take you to a river my wings will wet and I will drown as well! Now snuff your lamp and I will certain guide you!”_
> 
> _And so the boy did, and a thousand fluttering wings surrounded him as his feet lifted up from the ground…_

The room became completely dark and what sounded like locust wings filled it in the absence of the light. Emily turned to try to pinpoint the sound and Emily swore she could feel a flick of a wing against her cheek.

> _…and in the next instant he was home._
> 
> _The next night, his parents commanded him to go into the forest to pick nightblooms. But he slipped down into a deep ravine, twisted his ankle and broke his lamp._

There was a sound of breaking glass and Emily turned in surprise.

> _Certain this was the end of him, he cried and wept, and cried and wept._
> 
> _But again the moth came, fluttering into his hand._

Emily suddenly felt something crawl on the top of her finger, like the fringes of a feather. She reached out into the darkness, but there was nothing.

> _“Little boy,” it said. “You weep so loud! I shall guide you home again!”_
> 
> _“I thank you moth,” the boy said. “But we are by a river. You will surely drown. Leave me to die.”_
> 
> _But the moth would not, instead it said._
> 
> _“There is oil in your lamp. Light it upon my wings and let me fly you home.”_

Emily felt something slick between her fingers and she brought it to her nose. Olive oil.

There was a pause in the room, the air staying still and stagnant, as though time itself was holding still, like the air of The Void, a single breath of air held forever.

Then she brought it down on her other finger and suddenly felt herself get tugged out of her chair by her hand, rushing up bodily through the dark.

> _So he did and in an instant he was back home._

The flame returned and The Outsider blinked at her a few feet away, now standing there, right in front of her on her Serkonan rug.

Emily panted, turning back to put her hand on her seat, smoothing her hand over her hair.

“W-what happened next?”

The Outsider looked down at the flame taking it up in his hands.

> _The boys parents were very angry indeed._
> 
> _Not only had he not brought the nightblooms, but he had broken the lamp they had deigned to give him._
> 
> _Such generosity, such kindness wasted away in the river basin…_

The Outsider’s hands closed around the flame, drawing it away from the centre of the room.

> _And so he ran._
> 
> _He ran as far as his hurt leg could take him,  and that was not very far indeed._
> 
> _So his parents caught him and  locked him in the woodshed._

The Outsider clapped his hands  together and at the same time Emily heard the sound of a wood door closing. She reached out and she felt the grain of the wood, a splinter enter her finger. Her heart was hammering against her chest.

But slowly she relaxed, licked her lips and breathed.

She mustn’t be afraid of the dark. That was a child’s fear.

“And then what?” she asked, staring into the darkness. 

“What do you think?” The Outsider asked, emerging out of the shadows. The wood was no longer there, the feeling had dissolved beneath her hand. They were in her study, the gaslights were wicking in their glass globes.

Emily looked him in the eye for a moment and then down to the bridge of his nose. “The moth came.”

“And?”

“It asked to bring him home.”

The Outsider nodded. “Then.”

“It brought him to the Moth King’s court.”

The Outsider leaned forward, and he was very close to Emily now. “And what did the Moth King _do_?”

Emily met his eyes.

He had such dark eyes. Dark, awful eyes from some long forgotten childhood dream, something she had dismissed as stress and too many sermons. A child’s fear.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t...”

The Outsider leaned away and she felt some measure of relief from it.

 “You should learn your answer before the boy comes.”

Emily shut her eyes tight, like a little girl begging for a candle in the dark.

“I’d like you to leave now,” she said, aiming her voice like an arrow, and when she opened her eyes again, The Outsider was gone.

She breathed a sigh of relief, then sat down in her armchair, grabbing her glass of brandy with a shaking hand.


End file.
